


The Customer Is Always Wrong

by Charowak



Series: Starbucks Store #4077 [1]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 01:51:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23003848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charowak/pseuds/Charowak
Summary: Hawkeye has some issues with a regular customer.
Relationships: "Trapper" John McIntyre/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce (implied), B.J. Hunnicutt/Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce (implied), Frank Burns/Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan (implied)
Series: Starbucks Store #4077 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653247
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41





	The Customer Is Always Wrong

The sliding door opened and the familiar footfalls hit the brown tile. Hawkeye Pierce, shift supervisor in charge, groaned to himself from where he stood by the Detailed Coverage Report, or DCR as it was affectionately called, and assumed his position in front of the cafe register.

“Hello, Frank,” he said, with all the enthusiasm of a hungover walrus. “No, Frank, Margaret isn’t here today, and neither is Sherm. You’re stuck with me.” Hawkeye provided a sarcastic grin to punctuate that sentence.

Regular customer Frank Burns stood confidently on the other side of the register, his signature sneer gracing his face. “Well, let’s see if you can get my remarkably simple drink right today, Shift Supervisor Benjamin Franklin Pierce.”

“Your drink IS remarkably simple, sir. You just hate me. Also, you’ve still never told me where you managed to learn my full name.”

“Need I remind you--” Frank stuck a fat finger in Hawkeye’s face “--that I have your district manager on speed dial?”

Hawkeye’s head shrank back into his neck. “No, you need not. Need I remind  _ you _ that all of your attempts to get me fired have been unsuccessful?”

“Whatever,” Frank huffed. “I would like a grande cappuccino. Nonfat, AB-SO-LUTE-LY no foam, extra milk in a venti cup, with one Stevia, one Splenda, and one Sweet-n-Low  _ at the bottom of the cup before the shots, _ stirred, filled TO THE RIM--”

“--and 173 degrees Fahrenheit,” Hawkeye said, his fingers dashing across the POS screen. “I have your drink tattooed on my behind, Frank.”

“Well, that doesn’t explain how you never make it correctly!”

“I do make it correctly, Frank, you just hate me. That’ll be $4.36.”

Frank, who had been fiddling in his wallet for the exact change, stopped suddenly and stared daggers directly into Hawk’s eyes. “The price has gone up by three cents, Pierce.”

“Hmm, now that I think about it, it has. Sorry, they don’t tell me when they change the--”

Frank slammed his fist on the counter. “Are you trying to  _ steal  _ from me, Pierce?”

Hawkeye stepped back and put his hands up in surrender. “I am not, Frank. They don’t tell me when they change the prices on things. I just work here, I promise.”

“I want to talk to Sherman. NOW!”

“Yeah, that’ll be difficult. Sherm is horseback riding at his farm in Tacoma for the weekend.”

“Well, then, I guess I’ll just have to  _ call  _ him.” Frank produced his decades-old Nokia from his pocket and began tapping in the numbers.

“I don’t think he will answer, Frank. He doesn’t receive business calls when he’s away. He doesn’t even answer his  _ baristas  _ when he’s away.”

“Well, he will receive one from  _ me,  _ or  _ else, _ ” Frank sneered.

The call went to voicemail. Frank tried two more times; both of these attempts also went to voicemail. On the third attempt, he left a message: “Sherman, this is Frank Burns. Your shift supervisor Pierce has raised the price of my beverage by three cents in an attempt to steal from me. Please call me back when you get this or I will be forced to go over your head. Thank you.”

Hawkeye, safe in the knowledge that Frank would not physically attack him, had resumed his sarcastic grin. “Good. Now if you want your drink, you do have to pay the new price.”

“Fine.” Frank resumed counting out the coins and bills. “But corporate will be hearing about this.”

“Yes, sir,” Hawkeye said as he put the cash into the drawer, turning his attention to the bar barista who now had the great misfortune of handling Frank’s drink.

_ Fuck. _ He’d put Max over there.

Max Klinger had been at their store for a month and a half. His employment was mandated by the State of Washington as part of his five-year probation, an award he had received for selling various kinds of drugs around the state. He wasn’t incredibly strong on bar, but Rizzo had called out (again) and Hawkeye needed Radar O’Reilly, the only other person scheduled to close, on drive thru order and window, which was the kid’s strongest position, and Max at least  _ kind of _ knew what he was doing with an espresso machine. For his short period of employment, Hawkeye and the other shifts had tried their best to gently move Max off of bar until Frank left, but Hawkeye was doing the pastry pull and Radar was dealing with three cars in his drive thru, so he had no choice but to throw Max to the wolf named Frank Burns. Hawkeye quickly slunk into the back to pull some more pastries, but his peace was interrupted almost immediately.

“Good sir-boss Hawkeye, please excuse my vulgarity, but what in fresh fuck is this?” Max stood at the entrance to the back room, holding a grande hot cup with Frank’s sticker on it.

“God help me,” Hawkeye muttered. “Have you had the pleasure of meeting Frank Burns?”

“I have  _ seen _ Frank Burns, yes,” Max said, waving the cup at Hawkeye. “But you have all made a point of ushering me elsewhere while he’s here, so I have not  _ met  _ him, no.”

“Well, today’s your lucky day.” Hawkeye set the frozen butter croissants he had in his hand down on a tray and headed back over to hot bar, taking the cup from Max’s hand. “First of all, Frank’s drink is a grande drink in a venti cup.” He peeled the sticker from the grande cup, grabbed a new venti cup, and stuck the sticker to it.

Max stood next to him at the espresso machine, a look of confusion set into his face. “So that means he gets a lot of room in it, right?”

“No, actually. He wants extra milk.”

“Wouldn’t that just make it a venti? It’s the same amount of espresso shots.”

“Not if your name is Frank Burns. Okay, have you grabbed his sugars yet?”

“No. One Stevia, one Splenda, and one Sweet-n-Low, boss?”

“Yes. Put them in the cup. I’ll pour your milk. Cappuccino with absolutely no foam and extra, extra milk.”

“Isn’t that just a no-foam latte?”

“Not if your name is Frank Burns.”

Max smacked his forehead. “I am so incredibly confused.”

“Get used to it. Okay, when you’re steaming his milk, do not aerate it at all. Prepare your ears.”

“I don’t think my ears will ever be ready for such torture,” Max groaned.

“Wait ten seconds, then pull the espresso shots. Frank likes his foamless milk at exactly 173 degrees, so it takes a little longer to steam than regular latte milk.”

“Doesn’t extra-hot only go up to 157 degrees?”

“Ah, I have the pleasure of introducing you to the manual steam function!” When the milk hit 157 degrees, Hawkeye pulled the steaming lever again, this time not letting it drop fully. “Like this. Keep your eye on the temperature. Let it steam to 175, it’ll cool down before it reaches Frank’s burned-off taste buds.”

“You can burn off your taste buds?”

“Yeah, if you order this ridiculously hot beverage once a day for six years, you will no longer have any buds to taste with. Can you grab me a wooden stir stick?”

“With pleasure, boss.” Max scampered over to the drive thru, reached around Radar (who was passing out an order) for a stir stick, and returned to the espresso machine, stick in hand.

“Thank you.” The shots had just finished; Hawkeye poured the milk into the cup up to a half-inch below the rim.

“I thought he wanted it filled all the way.”

“He does. We’ll get to that. Stir stick.”

“Stir stick,” Max said, handing Hawkeye the stick. 

After stirring the drink vigorously, Hawkeye topped the cup off with the rest of the milk. “Okay, now we need to scrape off all these bubbles on top. Frank Burns is a boring man who likes no bubbles. Metal spoon.”

Max grabbed the metal spoon from its magnet on the side of the espresso machine. “Metal spoon. I feel like we’re doing surgery, boss. You know, on TV, when the surgeon asks his assistant for the tools and shit.”

“Beverage surgery.” Hawkeye chuckled. “Nothing can save this monstrosity that Frank Burns drinks all the time.” He scooped off the bubbles and deposited them into a steaming pitcher.

“You scoop so precisely, sir. Perhaps you were a surgeon in another life.”

Hawkeye scoffed. “Yeah, right.” He grabbed a lid and sleeve, slipped them onto the cup, and held the drink up for Frank, seated on the other side of the cafe, to see clearly. “Grande cappuccino, nonfat, absolutely no foam, in a venti cup with extra milk, one Stevia, one Splenda, one Sweet-n-Low placed in the bottom before the shots, stirred, and steamed to 175 degrees for the famous Fraaaaaaank Buuuuuurns!”

Frank stood up and stormed over to the counter. He put his hands around the cup. “It’s the right temperature.” He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip. “Blech,” Frank jeered. “But you’ve made worse, Pierce.”

A genuine smile crossed Hawkeye’s face. “Thank you, Frank. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It is most certainly  _ not. _ Wait a minute. Who is that?” Frank had extended his overused index finger and was pointing it directly at Max.

“I don’t think you’ve met before. This is Max Klinger, he’s worked here for about a month now.”

Frank took another sip of his drink. “I didn’t know Starbucks hired terrorists.”

Max stepped forward, presumably to jump over the counter, but Hawkeye pushed him back. “Have a nice day, Frank.”

Frank did not appear ready to go have a nice day. “This dirty Arab didn’t make my drink, did he?”

“This dirty Arab, whose name is Max, assisted me in the surgical procedure of making your drink, yes.”

“Disgusting!” Frank opened his drink and dumped it directly into the bar sink in front of him. Hawkeye jumped back just in time to avoid getting splashed with the milk that was still a couple blocks away from boiling. Radar heard the splash and jumped, just barely managing to catch the strawberry acai lemonade he had been holding. “I demand a refund. And I’ll be calling Sherman again. And the district manager.”

“Sure thing, Frank. Max, go on your ten.”

“With pleasure, boss!” Max hightailed it to the back room like his feet were on fire, and Hawkeye resumed his spot in front of the register. 

He hastily processed Frank’s refund and handed him back the money. “Have a nice day, Frank.”

“First you steal from me, and then you have a terrorist make my drink! I will be in contact with your superiors about this, Pierce!”

“Yeah, sure. Have a nice day, Frank.” The third time was the charm; Frank finally left the store, with no drink in hand.

Hawkeye covered Max’s ten-minute break on bar, and when he returned, Hawkeye retreated to the back room to continue the pull. But first, he wanted to leave Sherm a voicemail of his own.

One, two, three, four rings, and the expected voicemail greeting: “You’ve reached the voicemail box of Sherman T. Potter. There’s probably a very good reason why I didn’t answer your call, but if you  _ really  _ think you have something important to say, leave a message and maybe I’ll get back to you.”

Hawkeye rolled his eyes. “Good afternoon, Sherm. At this point you’ve probably received several angry voicemails from one Frank Burns, and I’d like to add to whatever bullshit he said to you the following statement from me, the manager on duty: Frank Burns is a cunt. I will be happy to clarify on Monday. Enjoy your weekend, sir.”

****

Hawkeye stumbled into work on Monday ten minutes before nine A.M., battling a massive hangover. B.J., shift on duty, awaited him at the register, bearing a huge smile beneath his mustache. “Good morning, sunshine. What can we get for you?”

“Quad espresso over ice,” Hawkeye grunted.

“Anything in it?”

“Black as night.”

“You sure? No toffee nut? No caramel brulee? No extra soy in a venti cup?”

Hawkeye glared at him.

“Black as night. You got it. Numbers?”

Hawkeye provided his partner numbers in a mumble, but it was okay, because B.J. had memorized every partner’s numbers and only asked for them to pull their legs. “You drink too much last night?”

“You know it. We called you several times, why didn’t you stop by?”

“You know I have Erin every other Sunday, Hawk.” B.J. lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is your asshole also sore from being, how shall I say,  _ trapped?” _

“Shut the fuck up. When will you guys let up on that?”

“Sometime around never.”

“Me and Trapper don’t even have sex that much anymore. You know my heart belongs to you, Beej.”

B.J. put his hand to his chest and smiled sweetly. “Of course. Oh, by the way, I think Sherm wanted to speak to you before you clock in.”

“Yeah, I had a little Frank incident on Saturday.”

“When do we not have Frank incidents?”

“Right, but this wasn’t a regular Frank incident. If you’d like to join Sherm and I in the back, I will happily, how do the young folks say it, spill the tea.”

“Oh, you fucking bet!” B.J. skipped to the back room, where Hawkeye imagined Sherm awaited him.

“Benjamin Franklin Pierce,” Sherm bellowed as Hawkeye entered the break room. “How many times have I told you that, despite whatever personal convictions you have against one Frank Burns, he is still a customer, and the customer is always right?”

“Many, but please, Sherm, you know as well as I do that  _ this  _ customer is always wrong.”

“I certainly do, but what could you have possibly done to make that man leave me fifteen voicemails in the span of one hour?”

“I didn’t do anything. If you’d allow me to explain my side of the story.”

“Humor me,” Sherman said, completely unhumored.

“Well, he was your typical rude. He was bitching about the price increase of three entire cents and made sure I knew he’d tell corporate I’m stealing.”

“That seems pretty typical. What was so different that you left me a voicemail while I was out of town calling him a cunt?”

“Well, nothing really… Oh, wait! He called Max a dirty Arab and a terrorist! That  _ must  _ have been what I was so upset about. How could I  _ forget  _ that?” Hawkeye’s sarcasm infused his direct stare into Sherm’s face.

B.J.’s jaw dropped; Sherm helped himself to a canyon-deep sigh. “Well, I guess that’s new,” Sherm said. “Tell me exactly what happened, please.”

Hawkeye related to Sherm and B.J. the horrific tale of what Frank had done this time. “Is that enough to get that nasty WASP banned from our store for good? Everyone within these four walls save Margaret is sick of him!”

“I’m afraid it isn’t, Pierce,” Sherm said. “However, if I witness any of that unacceptable behavior from Mr. Burns, I will have a talk with him. Capisce?”

“Capisce,” Hawkeye mumbled. “Time to clock in.”

****

Frank returned to the store at his usual time; 12:15 P.M. Hawkeye’s stomach turned seeing him, but at least he knew Sherm and B.J. were in the store to back him up this time. B.J. approached the register to ring him out; Hawkeye eyed him carefully from his spot on drive-thru bar, and threw a quick glance to Max, who was once again positioned on cafe bar. Max grinned and gave him a thumbs-up and wink; Hawkeye hoped that meant his probated employee wouldn’t try anything stupid. 

“Good afternoon, Frank,” B.J. said, customer service smile in full effect.

Frank snickered to himself. “Hello, B.J. How’s your divorce going?”

Hawkeye started towards the register, but Max grabbed his arm and pulled him back to seethe in front of the espresso machine.

“Fine, Frank,” B.J. replied, not missing a beat. “How’s Margaret?”

The smirk disappeared from Frank’s face; Hawkeye stole it and began wearing it himself. Leave it to B.J. to apply some snark liberally to Frank’s sore bullshit. “I would like a grande cappuccino, nonfat, absolutely no foam, extra milk in a venti cup, with one Stevia, one Splenda, and one Sweet-n-Low at the bottom of the cup before the shots _ , _ stirred, filled to the rim, 173 degrees.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Burns. That’ll be $4.36.”

“Hey!” Frank hissed. “You’re trying to steal from me too!”

“What? Did the price change?”

“Yes,  _ Mr. Hunnicutt, _ you and Pierce have ‘increased’ it by three entire cents in an effort to take from me my hard-earned money!”

“I sure did. Those three little pennies will line my pocket quite nicely. Oh, wait, Pierce is in on it too? We’ll have to cut one of them in half. Or perhaps he will let me have one on the weekends, and he’ll take it back on the weekdays.”

“Yeah, like your daughter?”

The smirk had vanished from Hawkeye’s face. Nobody was wearing it now.

“I want to speak to Sherman!” Frank demanded.

“Certainly,” B.J. said. “I’ll go get him for you. Hey, Sherm?” he shouted into the back.

Sherman T. Potter emerged from the back, bearing as wide of a customer service smile as he was willing to provide to Frank Burns. “Hello, Frank. What seems to be the problem?”

“Sir, the price of my drink has inexplicably gone up by three cents, and I have reason to believe Pierce and Hunnicutt will be splitting the proceeds!”

“Horse hockey,” Sherm said. “That price increase reflects the new state sales tax on prepared foods, which began on Friday. Pierce and Hunnicutt will see none of that money, unless they ever glimpse the suit pockets of our state representatives.”

“Sherman, a coffee isn’t food! It’s a beverage!”

“We prepare it, and you ingest it, Frank. That’s the definition. If you have a problem with it, I suggest you call your representative.”

Frank harrumphed and produced the $4.36, which he handed to B.J., and proceeded to the handoff plane, where he rested his elbows and bent his upper body over the bar to observe the drink-making. As soon as he noticed who was on cafe bar, he announced, “I want Sherman to make my drink.”

Hawkeye nodded to B.J., who went to the back to get Sherm again. Sherm walked slowly to the end of the bar. “Hello, Frank,  _ again _ . What seems to be the problem,  _ again? _ ”

“I would like you to make my drink, sir.”

“Why? What’s wrong with the man assigned to cafe bar?” Sherm gestured to Max.

“He made my drink on Saturday, sir, and it wasn’t to my liking.”

“Nonsense. Hawkeye made your drink. He was showing Max here how to make it for the future. All Max did was open your sugars and pass Hawkeye the stirring utensils.”

“How do you know that if you weren’t here?”

“Because Pierce was kind enough to tell me everything that happened.” Sherm leaned over the bar and put his face two inches from Frank’s. “ _ Everything. _ ” Frank shrank back from the bar. “Maxwell Klinger will make your drink today, because B.J. the shift supervisor has placed him on cafe bar, and you will take it and have a wonderful day.  _ Got it? _ ”

Frank gulped, scrunched up his face, and wailed, “I don’t want a terrorist making my drink!”

That was the last straw for Max. He hopped up onto the counter and reached for Frank’s throat; B.J. and Hawkeye rushed over to help Sherm restrain him. Frank staggered back from the handoff plane as the three managers removed Max from the counter. “I want this man FIRED!” Frank screamed.

“I’m afraid that’s another thing you’ll have to take up with the state, Burns,” Sherm said as Hawkeye and B.J. brought Max to the back room. “Max’s employment here is mandated by the Washington State Department of Corrections as part of his probation.”

“Yeah, and I’ve got the ankle jewelry to prove it!” Max hollered from the grip B.J. and Hawkeye had him in, lifting up his pant leg to display his tracker.

Sherm waved the three of them off, and the two shifts dragged Max into the back. “You got lucky today, Burns. I will be making your drink. However, in the future, you will be content with whoever is on bar. The folks at corporate and I appreciate your business, but if you insist upon being insufferable to the point of racism towards one of my employees, we will ban you from the store. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Frank mumbled. Sherman hastily prepared his drink, handed it to him, and customer-service-smiled and waved him out of the store. 

“Larry, Curly, Moe, you can come out of hiding now,” Sherm called. B.J., Hawkeye, and Max returned to the front of house and resumed their positions.

“Your divorce,” Hawkeye muttered to B.J. “If he ever says anything to you about your divorce or your daughter again, Beej, I’m gonna lose my fucking job.”

“Don’t worry about it,” B.J. said. “What are you doing after work?”

Business resumed as usual, as it always does.

END

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to a new series of fanfic that i won't finish because i can't finish shit :) but i do really like this little idea i have here and it'll be fun to write more of it. comments are always appreciated, and if you'd like, follow me on twitter @itsjoshlyman!


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